


Season Ten

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: And apparently you can walk into the infirmary with a shiv, And mayo?, Because really?, But at least there was a wedding, But at least they brought Mickey back, Canon basically sucks, If you are triggered by things in this show then don't read this fandom, M/M, Season 10 fix, Season 10 reimagined, So it just wouldn't be that hard to walk out with some lube, When Ian works in the infirmary?, Would Ian really care if Mickey's on schedule?, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: When he wakes and didn’t realize he was asleep, he’s still got Mickey in his grasp, and it’s the normal time, twenty minutes ’til lights on, and he’s still slotted against Mickey and Mickey’s boxers are still wadded around his thighs and he’s right there.  Leaning into his furnace fired skin to press scorching kisses against his neck, his shoulder, waiting for that crusty whispered, “good morning,” before he lets his hands wander.  Savoring every single second of that twenty minutes.  Nineteen minutes, before they have to get up and put on their prison faces.  Eighteen minutes when he’s sliding into Mickey’s heat.  Seventeen minutes when he’s kissing his ear and whispering, “I’ll wait.”Sixteen minutes when Mickey is turning his head and he’s stealing his lips.  Fifteen minutes when he’s breathing against his breath and loving the underlying flavor that is unmistakably Mickey.Twelve minutes when he thinks he could slip under Mickey’s skin and stay there forever.  Eleven minutes when he feels the first tear leave a salt slick down his cheek.  Ten minutes when Mickey’s fingers link with his on his belly.  Nine minutes when he whispers, “I love you.”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 31
Kudos: 225





	1. The Prison Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian during the time in prison.

The Prison Chapter

Ian watches the ceiling, coming out of his prison-induced coma, waking at the exact same time every morning, listening to guard Calhoun walk by. He can tell by the heaviness in his footsteps. This isn’t the way most people wake up in prison every morning, this isn’t the way most people sleep in prison. Hell, nothing about this has been typical prison according to the stories he’s heard from other inmates. But who is he to question Fate? Or Shim? Or the prison system? Or Mickey’s bribes, blackmail, and vast knowledge of how to work the system to get the things he needs while inside. 

Mickey. He listens to him breathing. Twenty minutes until the buzzer sounds. And the lights come up to full blast. The light is the thing he can’t quite get used to. The noise, sure, it’s not much different than the Southside in the summer with the windows open or a party going on downstairs in the winter, or anytime all of the Gallaghers are under the same roof really. 

But this part. This part where it’s still dim, as dark as it gets in here, this part when the blood is slowly moving back to all the places the hard mattress drained it away from over night, where the sound of Mickey’s quiet, even, sleep-breathing is filtering into his ears. Where the scent of him lingering in the air in their cell, over the scent of prison laundry soap, yeah, he smells that fucking good. This part, where the presence of him calms Ian’s every nerve and rises something else. 

The something else that leads him to lean over the bunk. And take a peak. He’s on his side, facing away from the door. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. It’s almost a shame to wake him. But Ian knows, that as much as Mickey would never admit it, he’s been pulling whatever strings he can to keep Ian away from the real side of prison that even exists here in Disneyland block reserved for lower level inmates, ones who are in and out like the system is a revolving door, ones that would be better suited for rehabilitation than prison but since that doesn’t exist anymore, they’re here. Community service isn’t enough to please the court, but a year or two in Level One is. The repeat offenders that have to mark felon on job applications, they don’t get a job so they break parole and end up back here. The cycle of crime. The cycle of poverty. It's pretty fucking hard to break cycles.

Either way, as much as Mickey would never admit it, and maybe Ian doesn’t want to acknowledge it, he’s only in Disneyland because of Mickey’s protections put in place and because, well, probably because of his disorder. A bipolar religious delusion, a life lived under the poverty line, and well, here he is. But it could be much worse. It could be a mental institution like the old days. He’d be straight-jacketed and put through sensory deprivation and electro shock therapy. 

Anyway, if he can do for Mickey one thing and one thing only, it’s to start his day off right. Ian’s ready, he’s always ready when he’s this close to Mickey. Being around him in the yard is dangerous, but here, before lights on, before the guard makes another round, before anyone else is making much noise for the day; here, he can slide in behind him. He startles just a little, just enough to know he’s awake, but his eyes remain closed and the muscles that flashed taut awareness of his surroundings are starting to sink into relaxed awareness of the body behind him. A deep breath when Ian’s lips meet his spine, his hands meet his hip and he grumbles a sleep-crusted whisper, “good morning.”

U-UP slides through Ian’s hair, down his arm and he takes his own boxers down as Ian gets to work on kissing that bare shoulder and his hand slides over his asscheek. If Mickey takes his own boxers down, he’s ready for a fuck. If he doesn’t, then he only wants traded jerk sessions. Prison code. Or Mickey code, Ian’s not sure. He thinks he can remember if he tries hard enough but there’s enough, too much, to remember that maybe neither of them should. So he doesn’t. 

Ian’s right hand reaches to the head of the bed, tucked in between the books, at an awkward enough angle that he feels Mickey’s head turn, probably wondering if the reach will knock him off the bed, or at the very least, will deter Ian’s left hand from the task of pre-lube warm-ups under the sheet.

“How ‘bout the right pack this time tough guy?”

“Yeah, yeah, that was one time, and who the fuck keeps condiments with lube anyway?”

“The fuck who’s hidin’ your stash of stolen catheter oil, so your ass doesn’t get a shot for it, that’s who.”

“You could try a simple thank you.”

“The fuck would I do that?”

“‘Cause if I wasn’t stealing lube from the infirmary, then we’d actually be fucking with mayo. It’d smell like potato salad in here every morning.”

“If you weren’t stealin’ lube from the infirmary then we wouldn’t be fucking at all. So the fuck would I thank you for somethin’ that’s benefitin’ us both? Especially you, you’d have a coleslaw smellin’ dick.”

“True,” half mumbled through teeth closed around the tear-here, “but really,” smearing it around on his fingers first and heading to the promised land, “fuck,” he loves that feeling under his touch of Mickey, and he loves that breath that exits Mickey’s lips in a little gust of wanting and somehow annoyance too, “who the fuck puts mayo on barbecue chips?”

“The fuck who,” his fist is clamped down on the pillow near his chin, Ian presses another round of kisses on his neck, shoulder, fuck, he wants his mouth, but the fucker is weird about morning kisses. Of all the fucking things in the world to be weird about, that’s where Mickey draws the line. Morning kisses. Fucker, “watches you eat ketchup on plain chips, that’s who,” and now his lip is being tucked into his teeth and the second slippery finger is joining the first.

“Twelve minutes.”

“Yah, get in me.”

“Hold on.”

The eyebrows are high when his eyes flicker open and his face turns, “for what?”

Ian steals his lips. Jerk, can’t have it his way all the time. Keeping his mouth, meeting his tongue when he finally pries those perfect lips open, and guides his dick in. And, “fuck,” breaks the kiss anyway and he has to bury his face between Mickey’s shoulder-blades because there is nothing, nothing on this Earth that can even describe how useless this first moment of connection makes the rest of Ian’s body and brain.

—————

Another morning of wake-Mick-up-right accomplished before Calhoun comes by, before the lights come up, and the buzzer goes off. Before another day in prison begins. 

Another breakfast. Another shift. Another hour in the yard. Another phone call home, even though no one answers anymore except Fiona and she’s doing great but Ian wonders how long she’ll last that far away from home. He admitted a few weeks back that he was homesick, she almost admitted that she was too, but she’s not quite there yet. He supposes the beach will do that to a person. And he found himself wondering what the beach did to Mickey. No, he’s not wondering that. Because wondering that will make him wonder what else there was, or who else there was. And that's none of his damn business anyway, maybe Mickey found a good lay down there, and if he did, then he found some freedom to enjoy the things he enjoys and maybe that's all that should matter. And obviously if he did, then it's over now anyway. So maybe that part matters too, either way, Ian doesn't need to bombard himself with what-ifs. 

Another dinner and back in the cell. Reading a book while Mickey paces and clicks his pen. Flossing while Mickey sits and clicks his pen, and sure, these little fidgety things that he does really get old after this amount of time together, it’s not like at home when they both have jobs or cons or friends or siblings or can just walk out the door when Mickey’s clicking a pen, crushing a can, flicking a lighter, gnawing on his lower lip; those are the things that can’t be, “would you stop that?” avoided.

“Fuckin’ stop that,” in unison. Of course.

“Not again!” comes crashing thorough the vent.

“Mind your business Enzo!”

“Don’t make your business so fucking loud if you want me to mind my own! News flash shitheads, no one likes their cellmate. ‘Least you got the loudest flosser in the world instead of the loudest ball scratcher!”

“Fuck you Enzo. Yo Gallagher, ‘least you got the pen clicker from Hell instead of this dumb fucker who chews off his own fingernails and spits them on the goddamn floor in front of the toilet!”

“Fuck you Little Pete.”

“Fuck you Enzo.”

“Fuck you both!” Mickey finally hollers.

“Fuck you Milkovich!”

His middle finger silently responds for him and Ian feels his face twisting into a smile. A really stupid dopey smile, but he can’t help it as he climbs back into his own bunk and waits for lights out, “could be worse,” he hears Mickey mumble beneath him. 

“Could be worse,” he agrees. 

—————

“Could you at least wipe the fucking toilet down once a blue fucking moon?”

“The fuck would I do that for when I know you’re going to?”

“Because I’m not your maid, and you’re not a pig.”

“You sure about that?” his brow is high and his eyes are bright, but it doesn’t stop Ian from grumbling about him, in fact, being a pig, and Mickey wondering, “where you think you’d be shittin’ right now if you’d made it to West Point, huh? Either in a fuckin’ colostomy bag after getting blown to fuck in fuckganistan, or you’d be diggin’ a little hole to drop a deuce in, using one little square of toilet paper that you’d have to fold over your index finger,” he’s grabbing a piece of toilet paper and illustrating his narration, “wipe out your rim, bury your shit in the sand, end up with cookie butt, and finish your mission. Or you’d be on a shitty little base with shitty little plywood shitters that you’d have to beat off in too ‘cause there ain’t nowhere else to do it. And you got a problem with a a few piss dribbles on the steel?” now the brows are hairline and his hand with the toilet paper square crinkled around his finger is aimed at Ian’s chest, “now get the fuck outta my way.”

Ian sighs, glancing at the clock. 8:15. Every night, “I don’t know how you stay on schedule on this food.”

“Three meals a fuckin’ day on schedule. ‘Course my ass is on schedule.”

It doesn’t hurt that he’s got cast-iron guts. Ian supposes he should be proud of him, for having a healthy digestive system, “makes my life easier,” he shrugs, keeping his back to the toilet even though Mickey doesn’t give a rat’s ass who sees him shitting. 

He hears Mickey’s mouth open, then he bites back whatever sex comment he was going to make, remembering the open ears all over the duct work, and his mouth snaps shut again.

—————

“Gallagher, special delivery,” Calhoun hands him an envelope.

“Parole,” his eyes immediately fog over, darting to find Mickey who is already walking out the cell door, “shit.”

—————

“You busy?” Ian’s lying on his bunk, facing the wall, having had plenty of time to think about parole today. Time to think about what life would be like without Mickey around him twenty-four seven, his eyes mist over and he blinks it back.

“The fuck kind of a stupid fuckin’ question is that?”

It’s 8:15, “can we talk?”

“Uh, you’re about to piss me off, and you think I won’t pinch it off to come over there and beat your ass?”

“No,” he giggles, the one that he knows Mickey thinks is stupid and childlike, but it never ceases to make him smile anyway, “I mean, yeah, but I, um, I could stab Chester.”

“The fuck would you want to stab Chester for?”

“You know, um, parole. I could, if I stab Chester then he gets to stay. He doesn’t want to…”

“Fuckin’ guy is like a million years old and he wants to keep gettin’ his prison sponsored meals and shit. He can find some other dumbass to stab him.”

It suddenly feels like there should be eye contact right now. Craning his head over to look at Mickey, he’s met with a Milkovich glare and the eyebrows for the win, he turns back to face the wall, trying to find the right words to explain this shit without getting too many details forced through the vents, “Chester doesn’t want to be released. I don’t want to be paroled.”

“The fuck would you want to stay in here for?” the toilet flushes.

“Um, because, I, uh, I was planning on at least a year. More like two.”

“You’re not exactly a real criminal Gallagher,” sink, soap, angry scrubbing, “if they want to let you go early, then go. Ain’t rocket science.”

Jesus, he’s thick, “Mick, I…”

“Don’t,” it’s firm and it forces Ian to roll towards him, sit up, hop off the bunk. He watches as Barton takes a few strides past the cell door, then he grabs Mickey’s hips, shoving him against the wall in the corner that’s most hidden from the door, “the fuck’re you doin’,” he snarls it, but it’s lacking the intimidating bite and he’s not shoving Ian off him.

“I don’t want to go,” it’s a desperate whisper, “I don’t want to go because I don’t know how long you’ll still be stuck in here. And I don’t want to be out there without you. I don’t want you to be alone again, I don’t want you to think I’m just going to get out and start banging other people, and I don’t want to be out there wondering if you’re banging other people.”

“The fuck would I bang in here?”

“I’m not blind Mickey. Cox is always staring at your ass.”

“Uh, yah, well Cox ain’t exactly my type shithead,” his hand, still damp from washing and pat-drying on his jumper, lands on Ian’s cheek, slides to the back of his head, “don’t matter what you do when you get out Gallagher. As long as it includes a job, a place to live, and following your probation orders, then it ain’t about me.”

“It is. It is about you,” he feels Mickey’s fingers pulse dents into the back of his neck and, fuck, he wants to rip that stupid jumper off him and fuck him right, “it’s always about you.”

“Well if you want shit to be about me, then get out, get your shit together. Fuckin’ make me proud or some shit. You don’t belong in here Gallagher. Never did.”

“Neither do you!” it’s much louder than he intended. Enough that Mickey flinches a little. A deep breath, “you’re the product of your raising and you aren’t some hardened criminal either. You might have everyone else in here fooled and half the Southside fooled, but I know you.”

“Okay tough guy,” tapping his cheek in the roughly gentle way that only Mickey can, “if you know me so well, then you know I want you to get the fuck out of here and live a fuckin’ life, alright?”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are we, um, are we together?”

He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant about it, “guess that’s up to you. Kind of, uh, threw away my freedom to be here, so…”

“You’ve done a hell of a lot more than that for me throughout the years,” watching as Mickey’s hand rises in the minuscule space between their faces, thumbs and his nose, then lands palm down on Ian’s chest, giving a little shove, “not yet, please. Just let me say this.”

“This some kind of rom-com Gallagher?”

“No, but being out there without you is going to be a horror show unless you tell me, right now, if we’re together or not.”

Mickey’s brows are softening, his lips are softening and Ian’s certain he wants to kiss him. Long and hard and never fucking let go. Or maybe Mickey wants to punch him for even asking, or demanding, whatever he just did, “of course we are, just like always.”

All the breath in Ian’s body leaves in one giant relieved exhale and he dives in. Even though he shouldn’t, and he’s about to get shoved off, but just this right here, just a split second of wordless discussion, is what he needs before he can climb back up to his bunk to the sound of Mickey’s grumbled, “you stab Chester and I’ll stab you. Hear me?”

—————

He can’t fucking sleep. He hasn’t been able to since he got his date. But tonight's different. Because tonight is the last one. He’s leaving tomorrow, he’s walking out that cell door and he’s never coming back. Not through that door anyway, he’ll be in the visitor’s area at least once a week for the rest of the time Mickey is here, even though Mickey told him not to come. Because Mickey probably keeps hearing ‘it was too hard seeing you through the glass’, but Ian keeps thinking of that brash kid that was stabbin’ that fat fuckin’ mick for stealin’ his jello. And even if there is glass between them, it’s still Mickey. And Ian can’t go the rest of his sentence without seeing that face, hearing that voice, and fuck if he’s lucky, like really fucking lucky, maybe he’ll get a visit in the yard. 

It’s quiet, as quiet as prison ever gets when he leans over the edge to be immediately met with sparkly blues in the dimness and a cocked head, “c’mere.”

—————

When he wakes and didn’t realize he was asleep, he’s still got Mickey in his grasp, and it’s the normal time, twenty minutes ’til lights' on, and he’s still slotted against Mickey and Mickey’s boxers are still wadded around his thighs and he’s right there. Leaning into his furnace fired skin to press scorching kisses against his neck, his shoulder, waiting for that crusty whispered, “good morning,” before he lets his hands wander. Savoring every single second of that twenty minutes. Nineteen minutes, before they have to get up and put on their prison faces. Eighteen minutes when he’s sliding into Mickey’s heat. Seventeen minutes when he’s kissing his ear and whispering, “I’ll wait.”

Sixteen minutes when Mickey is turning his head and he’s stealing his lips. Fifteen minutes when he’s breathing against his breath and loving the underlying flavor that is unmistakably Mickey. Fourteen minutes when Mickey’s hand is grasped tight on the back of Ian’s head, pulling him deeper into his mouth. Thirteen minutes when his arms tighten around Mickey’s body. Twelve minutes when he thinks he could slip under Mickey’s skin and stay here forever. Eleven minutes when he feels the first tear leave a salt slick down his cheek. Ten minutes when Mickey’s fingers link with his on his belly. Nine minutes when he whispers, “I love you.”

Eight minutes when he whispers back, “I know. I love you too.”

Seven minutes when the world disappears and there’s nothing left in it but Mickey’s lips, tongue, body heat, stifled moan, and heavy breathing. Six minutes when the pace is picking up even though Ian doesn’t want it to. He wants to stay, here, exactly like this. Five minutes when his hand is on Mickey’s jaw, feeling the way it moves through the kiss, memorizing the one thing he always knew but never bothered to memorize before. Four minutes when Mickey’s hand is sliding across Ian’s cheek, smearing away tears and his voice is barely a whisper, “toughen up buttercup.”

Three minutes when his body is zapped by the current running through Mickey’s veins and he remembers, he knows, he is absolutely fucking certain that Mickey is the gas company and Ian’s pilot light was out. Two minutes and he feels himself smiling against Mickey’s mouth as he whispers again, “I love you. And I’ll see you real soon.”

—————

And he means it. He means it this time. He means it when he’s exiting the building and he’s grasping his brother and he’s wondering if he realized that Freddie was too close to Franny and it’s going to be way too easy to call them the wrong names when the beginning sounds so similar. And he means that when he realizes he’s been a shit uncle to Franny and that’s about to change. And he means it when he gets back to the Gallagher house and his first move it to get service back to his old phone number so when Mickey calls, he’ll answer. And he means it when he digs out his last hundred dollars from his stash in the attic and heads down to the pawn shop. And he sure in the fuck means that when he’s the first one standing in line, when he’s the first one through the doors, when he’s the first one sitting at the phone bank with a ring in his pocket and a gigantic idiotic smile on his face when he lays his hand down on the glass.


	2. Life On The Outside Or Somefuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey from parole through night before the wedding.

Life On The Outside Or Somefuck

Parole came early. Ain't that cute? Well, only get to roll on a cartel once might as well do it right. And hope to Gay fuckin' Jesus that Terry's shithead Neo-Nazi prick gang got enough sway to keep those fuckers off his back on the outside too. Ain't like Terry's worth a shit, but sometimes friends in low places are good friends to have even he don't agree with their gang politics or any of their life choices, or well, anything about them at all; he can still be the spawn of that piece of shit when he needs to be. Ain't like Mickey's proud but it takes a tribe. Or somefuck.

Fuckever. Thing is, he's really fuckin' glad to be gettin' out even if he's gotta keep one eye open at all times for cartel lookin' fucks he had to do that here anyway. Fuck, he had to do that in Mexico too. 'Least it'll be winter soon enough and those thin-blooded warm-weather creatures ain't gonna last this far north. None of 'em that are scary anyway. Hell, if they were gonna make a move they'd have made it by now. If they got as much reach as they think they do he'd already be full of holes and pronounced dead before he even hit the floor.

Sure, havin' three guaranteed meals a day and roof over his head, it ain't the worst thing in the world. Free access to a gym and a library and all that shit that he'd never admit to using, like books to get a GED and shit. But he's sick and fuckin' tired of seein' that damn gingerfuck through the glass. Lookin' like he's got shit on his mind and he's afraid to fuckin' say it. But he's pretty infuckingsistent on being there every goddamn day it seems. And if he ain't there in person, then Mickey can bet his ass that he's expected to call him. 

Bastard. Oh fuckin' well, he ain't gotta worry about that shit anymore. He's just gotta get out, get to the Gallagher house and surprise that asshole 'cause he kinda really loves that idiot's face when he's surprised. Problem is, the fuckin' place is crawlin' with wetbacks. Mickey hangs back for a minute, not 'cause he's scared of a bunch of fuckin' wetbacks, but just in case some cartel fucker somehow got himself in with Carl's dumb ass or somethin'. 

So when he's standin' across the street watching the house, he sees that damn orange beacon walking past the upstairs window. 'Course he does. Fuck it, might as well skip all the shit like knocking on a door and walking up the stairs and having to say a word or two to some other Gallagher shithead or some Mexican fuckever they are settin' up shop here. But he's pretty fuckin' sure they ain't cartel. 

Either way, he's goin' in the window all graceless and maybe should have used the door, but gingerfuck's face is priceless and he's fresh outta the shower and he's all, "Mickey?" like he ain't seen him in seven years.

"No, it's fuckin' Prince Charming, now take your fuckin' pants off Cinderella."

"Rapunzel."

"Fuckever. C'mere."

\----------

So it ain't that much different than prison. With all the noise downstairs. Hopin' to hell that moron locked the door. If there is a lock. 

Don't take long though to forget every thing else around them. All he gives a shit about is Ian. Ian. Right here, in the flesh. In his ass. All over his mouth like he owns the fuckin' place. Asshole gotta fuck him face to face, but fuckever. Mickey ain't gonna admit it, but fuck, fine, he likes wrappin' his arms around the dope and feelin' his chest against his and all that shit too. And fine, fuck, he really fuckin' loves when that fucker is still kissin' him when he comes. That choked gasp that happens against his lips and how he just lingers there, breathing at him and then starts kissing him again and just kinda lays there like he got all the time in the world. 

"Fuck, Mick," is the first thing that comes outta his mouth. Intelligent fucker he is after a good romp.

"Just did."

"Yeah," dopey ass smile, his big dumb hand slides through Mickey's hair, "I gotta go to work."

"Yeah? How's that goin' for ya? Didn't tell me much about your PO."

He's untangling himself from Mickey, and even if he wants to grab on tighter and not let him go, fucker's gotta work, "she's," heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face, tugging his pants back on, "horrible. But I'll tell you about it when I get home."

Fucker’s acting weird. But Mickey ain’t gonna press it. ‘Cause he’ll tell him about it when he gets home. 

‘Least he kisses him on his way out the door before he leaves him in here with a mess to clean up. Fucker.

—————

Larry fuckin’ Seaver. Problem with Larry fuckin’ Seaver is that he’s the kind of guy who’s mom told him once upon a fuckin’ time that if he’s gonna do somethin’ he best be doin’ it right or somefuck. Even if it’s shitty pay and it’s a shitty job, but he’s got some kind of bleeding heart or somethin’ and it’s bleedin’ all over Mickey every goddamn time he meets with him. Pansy ass fuck. 

So Larry fuckin’ Seaver wants to get to know Mickey. Like really fuckin’ know him. Know what makes him angry and what makes him sad and what makes him feel like he’s gotta break the law to stay alive and how his shitty circumstances and his abusive father and his dead mom and like everyfuckingthing in his life has led him here. 

So Larry fuckin’ Seaver makes Mickey talk. And makin’ Mickey talk also makes Mickey think. And Mickey’s thinkin’ real fuckin’ hard when Ian decides to say, “you ever think you should try dating?”

“Uh, you wanna go out on dates?”

“No, I mean,” his cheeks turn pink and he won’t make eye contact, “I mean like you dating other people.”

“Huh?”

“Just,” looking at his shoes. Looking anywhere but Mickey’s face, “you know, you’ve never been with anyone else, just, um,” shrug. That dumbass shrug that winds all the way up to his ears.

“The fuck you know what I’ve been with?”

The fuck is he talkin’ about? He breakin’ up with him? Again? There’s instant sweat on Mickey’s palms and his heart won’t beat right and his ears are rushing with blood. ‘Cause today when he was talking to Larry fuckin’ Seaver about a future career plan he started thinkin’ about Ian’s healthcare expenses and yeah, he’s gonna need a job with good healthcare benefits and sure, stockin’ shelves at ALDI for now at least keeps him within his parole agreement and he’s got decent benefits for bein’ part-time, but if he gets an actual decent job with like a union and shit he could truly get good healthcare benefits with good retirement packages. Who the fuck knew there was such thing as labor jobs that don’t take a hell of a lot of education and pretty much just shit you gotta be in decent shape for and know enough about machinery and shit to be able to take shit apart and put it back together and maybe learn how to weld or somefuck, pay some union dues and vote for union reps when it comes time to vote and they’ll do shit like negotiate a contract that includes vacation, health benefits includin’ dental so maybe Mickey can finally get that damn tooth fixed that’s been cracked since that night in, no. Healthcare benefits, retirement shit, there’s even this thing called Family Medical Leave Act so if Ian got sick for anything long term Mickey could get time off, it’d be unpaid, but it’s like twelve weeks a year he’d be able to take off without losin’ his job if Ian got bad again. And it just wouldn’t be that fuckin’ hard to work part-time at ALDI and go to trade school and then end up with a real fuckin’ future in probably a job with mostly shitty working conditions, but at least the pay and the benefits would be worth it and there’s even prescription coverage that would, fuck, it fuck, it’s just fuck. 

So while he was sitting with Larry fuckin’ Seaver talkin’ about a future with healthcare benefits for him that would really fuckin’ help with Ian if he ever grows a pair and asks him to marry him, while he was thinkin’ about FMLA bein’ somethin’ he could take time off for if they ever had kids or somefuck, while he was thinkin’ about goin’ to trade school and gettin’ a real fuckin’ job that could pay real fuckin’ bills and get them a real fuckin’ house of their own someday. While was thinkin’ about all of that stupid fuckin’ shit with this stupid fuckin’ guy who he thought loved him and wanted to be together for the rest of their lives even if neither of ‘em have ever said it, while he was thinkin’ about all that shit this asshole was thinkin’ about leavin’ him. Or technically kickin’ him out.

Fuck.

And now he’s lookin’ at him like he’s s’posed to be answerin’ a question that he’s pretty sure Ian never asked and if he did, then Mickey didn’t hear it over all the rushing in his head and he’s aware of how close he is to the door but the window would be faster. And his stupid body is betraying him and just standing in the middle of the damn room all stock-still and waiting for something like a fist to meet his face and make him move. ‘Cause that’s probably the only thing that can make him move right now, “you breakin’ up with me?”

“No, no Mick, just,” his hand is reaching out, but Mickey jerks his hand away, “Jesus fuck, no. Mickey, I just, you know, you’ve never been with anyone that you wanted to be with. You’ve never dated or, I just, fuck,” his hand slides across his face, through his hair, taking a minute to tug at the crown of fire before his eyes rise and burn a damn hole right through Mickey, “you’ve never been with someone else so how could you possibly know if you love me.”

Oh. That. 

Fuckin’ insecure fuck. Those three words been fallin’ out of Mickey’s mouth lately like it’s his fuckin’ name ‘stead of Ian or firecrotch or fuckever his name is at any given moment. Mickey keeps thinkin’ if he says it more often then not saying it when he wants to say it even though he just always figured Ian knows ‘cause what the fuck else would he feel about him if it wasn’t love? But ‘pparently he’s sayin’ it too much. That a thing? Like sayin’ it before he passes out at night, and before he leaves for work and shit. That’s too much? 

“Fuckin’ fuck Ian,” and maybe Mickey was bein’ fuckin’ dumb pretendin’ he wasn’t noticing the look on Ian’s face every time he said it back. Like there was something painful about it, “this about you bein’ unlovable?”

Yeah, maybe he’s been listenin’ sometimes when Larry fuckin’ Seaver gets all let’s-psychofuckinganalyze-you bullshit. And all his shit about all the things a person feels vulnerable about will turn into this shit about not being good enough, feelin’ guilty or ashamed of somethin’ that ain’t worth feelin’ guilty or ashamed over. Fuck. Yeah. Mickey fuckin’ gets it, he’s lived a whole damn life of feelin’ unloved by all the people biologically programmed to love him. And then there was Ian. All dopey and puppy-eyed and fallin’ in love with him through the fuckin’ glass and suddenly Mickey wasn’t quite so unlovable anymore. Don’t mean it all went away like some damn magic trick though. 

Bipolar is practically written in green across those damn eyes starin’ at him like he’s waitin’ for Mickey to bolt. Or punch him across the face. 

Deep breath. Fingers rising to grind into his eyes until he sees spots and all the damn spots are reading bipolar. Someone might as well be screamin’ it in his damn ear. 

“Fuck,” his ass meets the bed beside Ian without him telling it to. The bed where Ian has backed up against the wall and circled his arms around his bent knees like he’s got some kind of shield up. Fuck him. Fuck this. 

Mickey shoves his arms out of the way and clammers onto his lap. Facing him. Dumb shit looks equal parts confused and surprised. His hands rise, taking a tight hold on his face, making sure he’s got all his attention over the sound of the Mexicans makin’ a racket downstairs, and Franny makin’ a racket down the hall, and Lip’s kid cryin’ out in that damn camper. 

“You are lovable.”

“But what if…”

“No. You are lovable.”

“Mick you can’t even…”

“You are lovable.”

Anger is flashing a warning in green but Mickey don’t give a shit about his anger, “you don’t know every version of me! I don’t know every version of me! I don’t know if I’ll stay stable for the rest of my life. I don’t know if the meds will always be balanced and even when they are there are still days that I,” his voice chokes off, eyes dart over to the wall behind Mickey, “days that I want to flush them and just let myself be whatever the fuck I am and,” a deep breath that shakes anyway, his hands have found Mickey’s wrists. Fingers bent around them, eyes finding Mickey’s gaze and holding, “what if I go crazy again and I hurt you again?”

“I’ll love you anyway.”

“What if I,” it chokes off, eyes close, probably thinkin’ about all that shit he did before that’s all past is past as far as Mickey gives a shit and he can see it clear as fuckin’ day that it’s still heavy on Ian’s mind sometimes. It ain’t like filmin’ a porn and cheatin’ and stealin’ a baby is like run of the mill relationship drama, but, “I love you Mickey. But I don’t want you to think you’re stuck with me.”

He snorts. He can’t help it. Ian’s kind of an idiot. Even if it’s pretty fuckin’ normal to think he’s unlovable when he thinks about all that old shit, but it don’t fuckin’ matter. Not to Mickey, what matters now is now.

“How can you even choose me if you’ve never tried anyone else?”

“I can choose you ‘cause my life without you sucks. Maybe I ain’t dated anyone in the normal sense of dating, but I don’t fuckin’ want to. I’ve been away from you enough. And it don’t take much to know that bein’ away from you sucks. It fuckin’ sucks,” his right hand finally releases the death grip on Ian's face, slides through his hair and lands on the back of his neck, “why you thinkin’ about this shit anyway? Ain’t you workin’ as an EMT again and feelin’ like you got purpose and shit?”

He struggles his way right out of Mickey’s remaining grip on his face. Stares at the wall for a long damn time, bites at his cheek, fights with some tears and then outs it. All of this shit about his fucking stupid ass bitch piece of shit cartoon character mindless villain creature PO that MIckey’s gonna, “fuckin’ kill. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill her.”

In the meantime his big damn hands have put Mickey’s thighs in a death grip, probably willin’ him to stay seated, “you can’t. I just have to suck it up, deal with it and…”

“Let this dumb fuckin’ twat do enough shit to you that you spiral again? No, no Ian, that ain’t happenin’.”

“Please,” whisper, glossy eyed and maybe Mickey ain’t gonna kill her tonight. But he’s gonna kill her. 

—————

He should’ve fuckin’ killed her. He should’ve fuckin’ killed her.

When he gets home from work and Ian’s got his foot in a damn walking cast thing with crutches leaned up against the couch, and he’s gonna fuckin’ kill her. He’s going to. That’s the end of that. There will be no discussion. 

‘Cept that he don’t make it very far ‘cause Debbie and Carl and Liam tackle him before he can get over the front gate. And he could pull his Ruger on the little shits, but Carl’s got the damn bat in his hands and he’s pretty much as dumb as he ever was, but he’s right, “Ian’ll lose it if you end up back in prison over this.”

—————

“Just hold the fuck still,” Ian’s hands are gentle but that fuckin’ antibiotic ointment shit ain’t nothin’ more than a burning ache over the road rash on his elbow and the cut beside his eye from when those little fuckers took him down. Must have caught the edge of the fence with his face or somethin’. Fuckers. 

“Then get on with it asshole,” sittin’ on the lid of the toilet with Ian holding his chin in his hand. 

“It’d be done already if you weren’t being such a bitch about it,” he has the audacity to smirk.

Fucker, “well I wouldn’t be such a bitch about it if you’d just tell me what the fuck happened.”

“It’s just a fibular fracture, it’s nothing.”

“Yeah, well, I know that fuckin’ Gargamel bitch is behind it.”

“Just let it go Mick,” he’s pretty sure the fucker is cleaning that shit extra to inflict unnecessary pain on him to prove his damn point, “this is mine to deal with.”

“Fuckever tough guy. Too bad everything that’s yours is mine so eventually you’ll cave.”

He’s silent, pretendin’ to be focused only on that tiny cut that’ll heal just fuckin’ fine overnight. But Mickey knows the idiot well enough to know he’s deep in fuckin’ thought about somethin’. Maybe it’s today’s events that led up to a broken leg. Maybe it’s the what’s yours in mine thing. Or maybe it’s, “just please stay out of it for now,” his grip tightens on Mickey’s chin, forcing his gaze upward from where he was starin’ at the dope’s lips, “please.”

“Fuck, fine. Just maybe you should think about trusting me not to blow up over every little fuckin’ thing. Huh?”

“I do,” he’s still holding his gaze, “I just,” a dopey smile is rising, “I don’t trust your temper Mick. I don’t think anyone does.”

“Fine, fuckever,” arms instinctively crossing over his chest, eyes averting from Ian’s. Guess he’ll just pout this out. 

Fucker won’t let him. A smug expression on his face. Too bad Mickey knows how to wipe that shit off in short order. No warning, just a dive. Smashing into his lips, the fucker lets out a surprised grunt, like he has any reason to be surprised that Mickey’s kissin’ him. Fucker. 

——————

He’s not going to kill her. He’s not. He’s just going to have a little chat with her after his meeting with Larry fuckin’ Seaver.

“I’ve never had a Milkovich before,” ew. 

“Thing is, I know a guy who’s got Terry Milkovich on his case load and he’d be more than willing to trade him.”

“Oh yeah? What if I want you? A young stud to round off my line-up,” she reaches across the desk like she’s going to touch him.

He recoils, shakes the fuckin’ thought of her in the bathroom stall with Ian, dumb bitch, fuckin’ dumb bitch. He’s not going to kill her, “I’m gay. Besides, Terry won’t just round off your line-up, he’ll stay after practice to uh, prepare for the next game. If you’re pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down.”

Wow, he sounds like an idiot. But, gotta know the crowd, right? He couldn’t have been more close with the Gargamel thing, “what’s the trade?”

“Talk to Larry Seaver about it.”

She rolls her eyes, “Terry Milkovich is on Larry Seaver’s case load? What a waste of talent,” she’s eyeing him as she stands up, and Mickey couldn’t be more glad to see her walking away. 

His fingers drum on the desk, check his phone, chew on a thumbnail, grind into his eyes. If this doesn’t work, then he is going to have to kill her. So Terry isn’t exactly on Larry’s case load. But Larry bowls with the guy who does have Terry, and Larry knows that the guy who has Terry has no problem lettin’ Terry go. So he’s just gotta shift one or two things around, and this fuckin’ Gargamel bitch has gotta agree to let Ian go. Larry trades some random thug to his bowling buddy for Terry, then trades Terry to Gargamel for Ian. Everyfuckingbody wins.

And it’s a fuckin’ win. Even if the dumb bitch wants to know, “what’s Ian Gallagher worth to you?” when she comes back and eyeballs him like he’s trying to trade Alexander Ovechkin for a fuckin’ fourth round draft pick or somethin’. 

S’pose Ian is Ovechkin and Terry ain’t even a beer-league benchwarmer, but he’s gotta act like she’s winning out on the deal, “just figured I’d look out for my old man, ya know? And since Gallagher’s got a broken leg and a do-gooder personality he ain’t gonna be worth a shit for you anyway.”

—————

That doesn’t fully satisfy his homicidal urges towards the bitch but it helps.

What doesn’t help is when he busts through the door of their bedroom after his shift and Ian’s quick to hide somethin’. Pretendin’ he ain’t busted, but he’s turning awfully red for someone who wasn’t doin’ somethin’ they weren’t s’posed to be doin’, “gettin’ started without me?” but his dick is still in his pants. And there ain’t no hard-on in there, so that ain’t it.

“No,” even his ears are red and whatever the offending object was, is shoved under the pillow and Mickey knows exactly how to distract the dope long enough to get to the bottom of it anyway. 

Don’t take much lip on lip and hand on dick to make the idiot completely unaware of his surroundings and Mickey’s free hand don’t take long to find a box under the pillow. Ian’s eyes are closed and Mickey’s still workin’ over his mouth and stroking his cock, but it all comes to a screeching, grinding halt when he realizes the offending object is a ring.

“What? Why are you stopping?” he sounds like he’s just been fucked to the moon and they ain’t even gotten started yet.

“I ain’t,” he hasn’t been busted yet. He can just slide this back under the pillow and let Ian have his little surprise engagement, and let this play out, he can do that. He can let Ian have control of that. He can. He will. He’s going to, but, “it ain’t gold is it?”

Shit. He’s not going to let Ian have control over this. Shit. Mickey fucking hates surprises. Ain’t like he’s ever had nice surprises in his life. Fuck. ‘Course he hates surprises. And he hates gold. 

Ian ain’t talkin’ yet. Or moving. Or maybe even breathing. 

“Sorry tough guy,” hey, that was easy. To apologize, “I’ll just put this back under the pillow and let you, uh, do whatever you were plannin’ on doin’. And when you actually ask, I won’t say somethin’ dumb about the way it looks.”

And he’s silent. And his dick is losing interest in Mickey’s hand. And Mickey fucked this up. Damn it.

He leans away from the dope’s face, but not away from the heat of his body just yet. Not if he don’t have to. And he won’t have to unless Ian shoves him away.

He looks stunned. Not embarrassed. He looks more like Mickey slapped him than found a ring, “was it not meant for me or what?” that’s kind of a strong reaction to Mickey not liking gold. Maybe it is gold. No, Ian’s not that dumb. He knows Mickey’s first train wreck of a marriage was gold and he don’t want to replicate that shit anymore than Mickey does.

“No, it,” there’s his voice. It’s kind of breathy, and his eyes are kind of damp, “I’m an idiot Mick. I am,” he’s shifting and Mickey knows he wants him to get off him now, but he’s not going to. Dummy’s got a broken leg, no way he can wrestle Mickey off him now. Heels of his hands meet his eyes, pushing back whatever emotion is rising, blinking, blinking, and finding Mickey’s eyes, “I got it while you were still locked up. And I was so sure. About all of it. You and me. But now, I just, I can’t, it’s like I just keep,” he’s gettin’ all fidgety and Mickey grabs his hand when it rises again for more emotion squashing. Maybe Larry fuckin’ Seaver has a point when he says sometimes the worst place you can be is in your own head.

“Take a breath tough guy,” he tries soothing voice, something like soothing voice. His free hand finds the back of Ian’s neck and just rests there.

He does what he’s told, and admits, “I feel like if I ask you to marry me you’ll say yes. You’ll say yes because you feel like you have to take care of me. And you’ll marry me because you know you’re the only person who can take care of me and then you’ll be stuck doing it for the rest of your life even if I lose my shit again. And I don’t want you to say yes just because you think you have to.”

So he knows he’s s’posed to do shit like respect other people’s feelings and shit but, “that’s the dumbest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And then I’ll resent you for thinking I need to be taken care of. I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“I know.”

“But you’re the only person who makes me feel like I even want to take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“So you’re the only person who can take care of me.”

“Wrong.”

“Right.”

“Wrong. You’re taking care of yourself. You have been. I’m just here for it. Whatever it brings. I don’t love you in spite of being bipolar. I don’t love you because of it. Or because of the kid you were before it. I just love you. You and everything that comes with you. Ain’t got shit to do with takin’ care of you. In any capacity other than how any couple takes care of each other. I ain’t your nursemaid and you ain’t my anger management guru. We’re just here ‘cause we want to be here. For each other. With each other. Fuckever.”

“Mickey?” it’s all thick and his eyes are all glossy again and he swallows hard, wonders, “can you get off my lap so I can put my dick back in my pants and get down on my knee?”

“Yah, sure, but you ain’t gettin’ down on one knee.”

“It’s just a fib, not a knee replacement,” he’s reaching for the box that Mickey almost got back under the pillow before his dumb mouth opened. 

Backing off his lap, even if he don’t really want to, and he really don’t want this dumb shit on one knee makin’ it look like he’s begging Mickey for his hand or some shit. But, if it’s what ginger wants, then ginger gets. And ginger’s big fuckin’ grin that’s maybe the damn dopiest thing he’s ever seen is worth letting him just do it, “Mickey,” he’s got the damn box open and it ain’t gold. It ain’t bad actually. Manly enough and don’t look like he spent his life’s earnings on it, “Mickey Milkovich,” he corrects himself ‘cause the dumb shit must think there’s another Mickey in the room and if he busts out Mikhailo he’s gonna be walkin’ out of here with a fat lip, “I love you. I have since I jabbed you with that tire iron,” so that smile can get dopier. Interesting, “will you marry me?”

“‘Long as the only thing you’re gonna jab me with from here on out is your dick, then yeah.”

“Jesus, Mickey.”

“Too crude?”

“Too Mickey.”

“K. Well, then, yes. Yeah, I’ll marry you firecrotch.”

The dopey factor drops a notch and his lip trembles, sliding the ring over Mickey’s knuckle. 

“I love you too. Now get up here and kiss the hell out of me. Or stay down there and suck my dick. Your choice.”

“Or you could turn around and sit on my face.”

“Too many choices,” so he just drops to his knees too and dives into those damn lips that make tingles rise on the back of his head and claw through his skull and exit his own lips, meet Ian’s breath in the middle and send a shudder down his damn lanky body. S’pose if two people been kissin’ like that for a decade, then it ain’t about to change any time soon.

—————

“So where we gonna do this shit?”

“This shit? Or this first day of the rest of our lives?”

“Uh, yeah, that second one.”

His laugh rises goosebumps against the back of Mickey’s neck, nuzzling against him with his damn sniffer goin', “I don’t know. I guess if we planned it, we could save up some money first and wait until Fi can be here. Maybe Mandy.”

“I don’t want Mandy to ever set foot in this shithole town again until Terry is six feet under.”

“Yeah. I think if Fi ever came back, she’d never leave,” he sounds homesick when he talks about her. Sounds like he did sometimes in prison when he’d talk about home.

“Courthouse?”

“We in a hurry?”

“Nah, not really. You goin’ anywhere? ‘Cause I ain’t. But, uh, if I’m wearin’ an engagement ring then you are too.”

“Mark your territory?”

“I could take it off.”

“No!”

Snickering, “okay tough guy. Who’s markin’ their territory here?” when he turns his head to get a glimpse of that dopey smile he knows is rising, the fucker attacks him with kisses again. 

—————

“I got some cash still,” Mickey admits over breakfast at the diner. 

“For?”

“A wedding,” his eyes fall on the ring on Ian’s left hand when he reaches for his water glass, “ya know, if you wanna make it a thing. It ain’t much. But we could find somethin’ kinda cheap ‘round here.”

“What if we waited ’til summer? Have something outdoors?”

Mickey shrugs, folds the corner of his napkin. Unfolds it, and stares at it. Until Ian’s hand comes into view, reaching across the table and landing on his. Fucker waits ’til Mickey turns it, letting it slide into his grasp easily, “we’re not waiting that long,” he grins, “I’ll make some calls this weekend and see what kind of price tags go with some of the Halls around the Southside. Wanna trash it up?”

“Fuck if I care man. Just not the Alibi,” he don’t have to say ‘cause of the whole night of the christening thing.

“Not that trashy. How much money we talkin’?”

Mickey sighs, vision full of those green eyes and a flickering memory that he stifles, ‘this isn’t me anymore’, reaching for the envelope out of his jacket pocket. Not like he wanders around with this much cash all the time, but he figured he should hand it back over to Ian as soon as he brought it up and if Ian’s volunteering to handle the details then he ain’t gonna fight him for it. He flops it on the table between them.

Fucker recognizes the envelope immediately, eyes getting all big and he ain’t really sure what to say at first. Holy shit, Ian Gallagher is speechless. It’s a big day, it’s like a mark-it-on-your-calendar sort of day. 

“But this was,” his free hand slides over the paper, the bank in Texas, paper dirty, damn thing is taped shut, it’s had some hard years riding around in Mickey’s pocket. Then getting stashed under a floorboard in his old bedroom curtesy of Iggy. He knows Iggy didn’t take a damn bill out of it since it’s still the original tape on it. It’s like some stupid fucking fiesta tape that’s all bright colors and shit, “this was for your freedom Mick. I don’t want this back.”

He feels his hand clamp down tighter on Ian’s, “I’ve got my freedom. Never had a thing do with borders or prison bars or any of that shit,” fuck, that was corny. But it makes a damn tear rise in the dope’s eyes, “you gonna be a crybaby bitch on our wedding day too?”

“Probably.”

“Guess you can be the bride then.”

“We have to do this quick while I’m still on crutches so I don’t have to be the one to walk down the aisle.”

“You wanna stand up front and pretend you ain’t cryin’ up there?”

“Yeah.”

“I ain’t got anyone to walk me down the aisle if I'm the bride. ‘Least you got Lip.”

“Can we just walk down together or something?”

Not having to say it’s what he did with Svetlana. Fuck, well, maybe if they walk down together it can be a good eraser of his first time down an aisle. He shrugs, “whatever you want tough guy.”

“Tux or suit?”

“Three piece suit.”

“Black or white?”

“Ice gray.”

“Ice gray specifically?”

He feels his eyebrows respond for him. 

“Okay. And what would go with ice gray?”

“Uh, regular gray.”

“Just two gays wearing gray?”

“You’re gay. I just like your dick in my ass.”

He snorts, smile growing again, hand squeezing tight, “well, it’s a start.”

“What’s the finish?”

“Vows.”

“Traditional.”

“Works for me. Otherwise we’d be dealing with you saying something insanely inappropriate.”

“Ain’t like you’re so smooth either firecrotch. And we ain’t gettin’ married in a church so…”

“Traditional vows it is,” he interrupts before Mickey can even get started on some dick poetry. He smirks anyway, knowing the gingerfuck is reading his mind. Like his ass poetry would be any better.

—————

“What if I want kids someday?”

“Then you’re gonna have to fuck a chick. ‘Cause I ain’t. Or wait around ’til Carl accidentally knocks up some old lady again.”

“Think Frank would give us a family discount?”

“Fuck that,” he tries not to think of Yev. He signed away his rights to that kid. But he remembers the way his baby head smelled, and he remembers the way his weight felt in his arms, and he remembers the way his little fist felt against his chest. And he tries to convince himself he did the right thing. He did the right thing for that kid. He would never have been a good father from behind bars. Kid's got some rich old asshole to call dad now. If he’s still alive. Or even knows who the kid is. So maybe he’s got some new guy in Svet’s life to call dad. Fuck. Either way, Mickey would do nothing good by trying to get in touch with him now. Fuck, “there’s enough strays 'round here, won’t be that hard to find a baby that no one wants.”

—————

“You are not going to believe this,” Debbie hollers when she walks in the front door, “Mickey! You are not going to believe this!”

“What? Fuck, I’m right here and I ain’t deaf.”

“Okay,” she shoes Franny upstairs, “wash your hands and we’ll make dinner,” wait’s until she’s gone, eyes all big and sometimes she looks an awful lot like Ian, “cop cars all over at your dad’s…”

“That ain’t new.”

“Yeah, but this,” she shows her phone screen to him, a local news story about a dead PO. It’s Gargamel, “you remember Tony the cop?”

“Who?”

“Whatever,” shrugging it off, “he said, which he’s probably not supposed to say, but it’s Southside and we’re all just one big fucked up family around here anyway, this was your dad.”

“Huh?”

“They’re arresting your dad for killing his PO.”

“Huh,” well, guess he don’t gotta worry about the homophobic prick interruptin’ his wedding day.

“That’s all? I mean, this is probably a life sentence if he’s found guilty.”

“Yeah.” 

“What’s a life sentence?” Ian thumpin’ down the stairs with Franny on his back.

“Talk about it later,” his eyes dart over to Ian’s, he ain’t exactly sure how to feel about that shit. Guess that’s just kinda how his family life has always been. Maybe he’ll talk to Larry fuckin’ Seaver about it at his next meetin’. Well, shit, he’s surrounded by a bunch of pale freckled alien creatures. He needs a smoke.

—————

Ian says it ain’t his fault. Larry fuckin’ Seaver says it ain’t his fault. Terry’s a grown man who made his own decision to kill his PO and just ‘cause Mickey got him put on her case load don’t mean it was his fault. So, guess it ain’t his fault. 

—————

“Nervous?” Ian wants to know, breath against the back of his neck, arms wrapped around him. 

“For what?”

“Gettin’ married tomorrow. Remember?” squeezing his hands tight in his grasp.

“Nah. I ain’t nervous. Only person who could fuck it up is behind bars. And even if he wasn’t, I’d still be proud as hell to be marrying you tomorrow.”

“Proud?”

“Yeah. Go ‘head fly a rainbow flag if you gotta.”

Shifting his body, leaning over Mickey and nudging at his face to get his head turned. He’s got his damn serious face on when Mickey turns to look at him, “I’m proud of you too, ya know?”

Something stupid happens in Mickey’s chest and he don’t know what to say, maybe there’s nothing left to say. Maybe it’ll all be said in the vows tomorrow. But ’til then, wordless communication will have to do.


	3. The Wedding Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

The Wedding Chapter

When Ian wakes the morning after the wedding, he takes a deep breath of Mickey’s hair under his nose and takes a moment to think back on the day before. He doesn’t truly remember much of it. Not because he was drunk or his meds were off balance or any of that. He doesn’t remember much of it because he was finally marrying Mickey Milkovich and that was all that mattered.

He remembers walking down the aisle, offering Mickey his hand and Mickey taking it. Without hesitation. He remembers saying the vows and pretending he wasn’t crying. He remembers looking at Mickey and thinking he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. And a kiss. He remembers a kiss.

He remembers turning around to face the crowd of family, friends, and Frank. Blinking back tears and gripping tight to Mickey’s hand, he lost the battle with the rising waterworks when his gaze made it to the end of the aisle and standing right there were Fiona and Mandy. 

The reception with the dancing and partying and the crowd getting louder and drunker. His family, for better or worse, his family was all there. For him. 

And even on a stupid broken leg he danced with his husband. Maybe he more like draped himself over his husband and didn’t let go. Swaying and holding, knowing the night would end too soon but not soon enough when it was time to thank everyone for coming and head off to the honeymoon suite. 

And he knew the night would end too soon with Mickey’s sweet-glazed skin and pleasure-fogged eyes. But it didn’t matter how soon it ended. It was only the first. The first for the rest of their lives.

And waking up. Waking up with Mickey in his arms and under his nose, with his hand, left hand with a brand new wedding band on it clamped in his own. With a kiss on his forehead and a, “good morning,” only the first good morning in a string of the remaining good mornings for the rest of his damn life with this damn man for better or worse with his bare naked glory and simmering body heat tucked under Ian’s arm.

“Mornin’ sleepy face,” a stretch, a yawn, and a roll towards Ian’s side.

His eyes catch on the metal on his finger when his hand lands on Mickey’s shoulder, “we’re meeting Mandy for brunch before she takes off again. Then I wanna spend some time with Fi this afternoon. But that leaves two hours ’til check-out and I can see three surfaces from here that we didn’t fuck on last night, so…”

“Yah, well I see four, so,” his face rises, lips pursed, eyebrows up in a dare. A dare that Ian will accept without hesitation. Hands grasping his face immediately, crashing into his lips and not bothering to come up for air until he absolutely has to. 

It feels different. Different than it used to. Better somehow. Like he doesn’t have to fight for it anymore, they don’t have to wonder if they’ll ever be happy together, if they’ll ever be a normal couple with normal couple issues and worries. It feels like all the future obstacles won’t matter, they won’t matter nearly as much because no matter what life throws at them now they’ll face it together. Without a doubt. Together. Just like always. Just like always, now with vows and rings and a marriage certificate to make it official. A lifetime of love that was and always will be the most important thing they could ever give each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously we all would have loved to see Mandy and Fiona at their wedding but we got our damn wedding and we have no reason to complain about it...
> 
> Snip, snap, snout, this tale is told out. Thanks friends! Kudos are currency so leave me a tip and leave unproductive negativity elsewhere :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you came, you read, and you're here then leave kudos - it's the least you can do for me for sacrificing doing chores to write and post this :)


End file.
